Chapter 40 Thalia
THALIA
Pain floods my consciousness like water breaking through a dam. Every nerve ending screams in protest as awareness creeps back, bringing with it the memory of flames licking at my skin, the acrid smell of burning cloth, Rytha's wild eyes as she dropped the torch.
I'm alive. Somehow, impossibly, I'm alive.
The surface beneath me is soft—softer than anything I've felt in years. Real bedding, not the thin pallet I'm used to. The scent of clean linen mingles with something else—herbs I recognize but can't place through the haze of agony that radiates from every limb.
A small movement catches my attention. Through the doorway, a tiny figure peers around the frame—an orc child, maybe six years old, with enormous dark eyes and tusks no bigger than milk teeth.
The moment I groan, those eyes widen to impossible proportions, and small feet scramble away across what sounds like wooden floors.
"Mama!" The voice echoes from somewhere deeper in the dwelling. "The burned lady is awake!"
Burned lady. Right. That's what I am now.
I try to sit up and immediately regret it. Fire races along my left side where the flames caught me worst, and my right leg throbs with each heartbeat. The pain is so sharp it steals my breath, leaving me gasping against the pillow.
That's when I notice the weight against my right hand. Warm, calloused fingers intertwined with mine, a grip so familiar my chest tightens with something that isn't pain.
Galthan sits slumped in a chair beside the bed, his massive frame folded awkwardly to accommodate furniture clearly not built for someone his size.
His head rests against the wall, mouth slightly open, dark hair falling across his forehead in a way that makes him look younger than his thirty-two years.
Even in sleep, his hand holds mine like he's afraid I'll disappear if he lets go.
Dried blood stains his shirt—some of it mine, some of it probably not. His knuckles are split and swollen, and there's a nasty cut along his jaw that someone has cleaned but not properly dressed. He looks like he's been through a war.
Maybe he has.
"Galthan." My voice comes out as barely more than a whisper, throat raw from screaming. Or smoke. Probably both.
He doesn't stir. Exhaustion has claimed him completely, and I find myself studying his sleeping face—the strong line of his jaw, the way his tusks catch the light filtering through what must be a window, the faint scar that runs from his left temple to his ear.
I've traced that scar with my fingertips in stolen moments, but I've never had the luxury of simply looking at him like this.
Footsteps approach—multiple sets, one much smaller than the others. The orc child reappears, this time clinging to the skirts of a human woman with curly hair and kind eyes. Behind them, Tarnuk fills the doorway, his broken tusk more prominent in the morning light.
"Well," the woman says, voice pitched low to avoid waking Galthan. "You've certainly caused quite a stir."
Two more figures fill the doorway—massive orcs who dwarf even Tarnuk.
The first carries a wooden tray that smells like heaven and makes my stomach clench with sudden, desperate hunger.
The second has ritual burns spiraling up his forearms and eyes that seem to catalogue every detail of the room in a single sweep.
Kaela takes the tray from the first orc, setting it carefully on the bed beside me. Steam rises from what looks like actual stew—not the thin gruel I'm used to—and fresh bread that's still warm from baking.
"Here, let me help you sit up." Her hands are gentle but firm as she slides an arm behind my shoulders, supporting my weight as I struggle upright. Every muscle protests, but the promise of real food gives me strength I didn't know I had left.
"I'm Kaela," she says once I'm propped against what feels like actual pillows.
"This is Vargath—" She nods toward the orc with the ritual burns, who inclines his head solemnly.
"—and Drokhar." The other orc, I notice now, has warpaint smudged across his cheekbones and one eye that's clouded white with blindness.
Drokhar steps forward and nudges Galthan's boot with his own. "Wake up, brother. Your woman needs to see you're still breathing."
Galthan jolts upright so fast the chair creaks in protest, his eyes immediately finding mine with an intensity that steals what little breath I've managed to recover. In one fluid motion, he's on his feet, reaching for my hands, bringing them to his lips like they're something precious.
"You're awake." The relief in his voice is so raw it makes my chest tight. "I haven't left your side since we got you out of that fire. I couldn't—" His voice cracks. "I thought I'd lost you."
The warmth of his mouth against my knuckles sends shivers up my arms that have nothing to do with fever. "Why?" I manage to whisper. "Why did you save me?"
Kaela settles into the chair Galthan vacated, her expression serious but kind. "Because you were chosen. Like we were."
I blink at her, then at the two massive orcs flanking the doorway. "There are others? Others with markings like mine?"
"You're the only one with such a blessing—so far.
" Kaela's fingers brush against something at her throat, and I catch a glimpse of silver that seems to shimmer with its own light.
"But Seris and I, Drokhar and Vargath—we've all been chosen by gods or goddesses.
Different ones, different purposes, but chosen nonetheless. "
Vargath speaks for the first time, his voice a low rumble. "The gods are stirring again. They're trying to tell us something."
"What?" The word comes out sharper than I intended, desperation bleeding through.
Kaela leans forward, her eyes serious but warm. "We don't know yet. But you're safe here, both of you. We'll find answers to this mystery together—all we need to do is wait and save others like us when we find them."
The weight of it all—the fire, the rescue, these strangers who speak of gods like old friends—crashes over me like a wave. I close my eyes, overwhelmed, but for the first time in my life, I don't feel alone.
Galthan's massive hands frame my face with a gentleness that contradicts everything I know about war and violence. His thumbs trace the unmarked skin of my cheekbones like he's memorizing the places the fire didn't touch.
"I need a moment," he says to the others, voice rough with exhaustion and something deeper.
Kaela rises immediately, herding the small orc child toward the door. "Come on, little one. Let's see if we can find some honey cakes in the kitchen."
Tarnuk follows without protest, though I catch him studying Galthan's face with the kind of concern that speaks of years of friendship. Drokhar and Vargath exchange a look I can't interpret before disappearing into the hallway, their heavy footsteps fading into silence.
The moment we're alone, Galthan's composure crumbles.
He slides his arms beneath me with infinite care, lifting me against his chest like I'm made of spun glass.
The movement sends fresh waves of pain through my burned skin, but I bite back the whimper because the anguish in his eyes is so much worse than anything the fire did to me.
"I'm sorry." His voice breaks on the words, and I feel the tremor that runs through his massive frame. "I'm so sorry I couldn't save you, Thalia. You deserved better than what I gave you. You deserve a better man than me."
The raw pain in his confession hits me harder than any physical wound. I shake my head against his shoulder, ignoring the way the movement pulls at tender skin.
"Don't you dare." My voice comes out fiercer than I expected. "Don't you dare insult our Goddess by suggesting she chose the wrong man for me."
His arms tighten around me, and I feel his breath hitch against my hair. "Look at you. Look what loving me cost you."
Instead of answering immediately, I shift in his arms until I can meet his gaze properly. The guilt there threatens to drown us both, but beneath it burns something else—something that looks like devotion wrapped in desperation.
He settles onto the bed with me still cradled in his lap, his back against the headboard. The position puts us eye to eye, and I can see every detail of the torment he's carrying.
"I'm sorry," he whispers again, his forehead touching mine. "The scars—you'll carry them for the rest of your life because of me."
"But I'll be alive." I press my palm against his chest, feeling the steady thunder of his heartbeat beneath my fingers. "And I'll be yours. And if what they say is true about this place, about these people—we'll never be alone again. We don't have to hide anymore."
Something shifts in his expression then, the guilt giving way to something fiercer, more determined. When he kisses me, it's with a passion that speaks of promises and desperate gratitude, of a man who's found something worth more than his own life.
"I'll dedicate my life to you," he breathes against my lips. "To proving to our Goddess that she chose the right orc to protect you. To love you."
His words settle into my chest like seeds taking root, and for the first time since the fire, I feel something bloom there that isn't pain.
"I love you, too, Galthan."
He smiles, kissing my forehead. "My little goddess in human form. Mine."
I snuggle closer to him, ignoring the aches and throbs. "Yours."